


Sous la table

by satb31



Series: Amis et amants [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Era, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Under-Desk Blow Jobs, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 00:57:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2449424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/pseuds/satb31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre is trying to work on a treatise, but Courfeyrac has other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sous la table

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mirambella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirambella/gifts).



Courfeyrac has not seen Combeferre in days, which is certainly atypical -- normally he would find his friend arguing with all comers in the corner of the Musain, but although Courfeyrac has been at the Musain every night this week, he has yet to encounter his friend. By Sunday, Courfeyrac’s concern weighs on him so much that he decides to go to Combeferre’s rooms to inquire about his health.

The first thing Courfeyrac notices when he appears that evening is Combeferre’s hair: it sticks up in a multitude of directions, and has clearly not been trimmed in a long while. His glasses are smudged with fingerprints, he is clad in just in his shirtsleeves and an ancient pair of trousers -- and he is obviously unhappy about being disturbed. “Hello,” he says gruffly as he opens the door, then he turns on his heel with almost military precision and walks back to the rickety table that serves as his writing desk, sitting down and picking up his pen as if Courfeyrac is not even there.

“Whatever are you working on?” Courfeyrac inquires, fetching Combeferre’s only other chair and placing it on the opposite side of the table. “It is a Sunday, Combeferre -- surely you can rest on the Lord’s Day, can you not?” He removes his jacket and folds it neatly over the back of the chair, then takes a seat opposite his friend.

Combeferre does not look up from his scribbling. “Enjolras has asked me for a treatise on Montesquieu, and he has asked me to have it prepared for tomorrow’s gathering. I do not wish to disappoint him.”

Courfeyrac sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes. “Not disappointing Enjolras? I thought the cause was all about ending servitude, not forcing one’s friends into it.”

Combeferre’s mouth is set in a straight line. as he puts down his pen to glare at Courfeyrac. “I thought we both believed in the cause,” he says acidly.

“Indeed we do,” Courfeyrac replies smoothly. “But there are times when one needs to think of other things. Like caring for oneself. When is the last time you combed your hair?”

Reflexively Combeferre runs his fingers through his tangled hair. “Not that long ago,” he answers, his defenses on the rise as Courfeyrac continues to stare at him with his fierce dark eyes. “Actually it was Wednesday or Thursday, I believe,” he concedes.

“Combeferre, it is necessary that you rest. This cannot be good for you. Shall I call for Joly? Perhaps if you will not listen to one of your oldest friends, you will listen to a fellow student of medicine.” Courfeyrac pleads. “I know he has cared for you in the past.”

Picking up his pen once again, Combeferre shakes his head. “That will not be necessary,” he snaps.

Courfeyrac sinks back into his chair with a loud exhale -- frustrated, to be sure, but not completely accepting of his apparent fate to watch his beloved friend in such a state as this. He decides to try another tack. “Combeferre, have you eaten today?” he asks.

“Yes,” Combeferre replies as he reaches for one of the many books piled up on his table, still distracted by the task at hand. “I had a crust for breakfast, and some tea. I do not feel hungry, Courfeyrac, at least not for food. Just for mental nourishment,” he says, sounding impatient as he thumbs through the volume. “So you will not be persuading me to find a repast somewhere else, I am afraid. I do not plan to leave this chair until I am finished.”

There is a long pause as Courfeyrac contemplates Combeferre’s eternal stubbornness, resisting the urge to upend the table and toss all of his work into the fire, Enjolras be damned. But as he watches Combeferre work, an idea crosses his mind. “So you will not leave your chair until you are finished?” Courfeyrac asks, a devilish glint in his eye.

Finally Combeferre looks up and makes eye contact. “Until I am finished,” he repeats.

“Then I will just need to ensure you finish properly,” Courfeyrac says mysteriously, as he loosens his cravat and rolls up his shirt sleeves.

“What are you doing?” Combeferre asks, his brow furrowing in puzzlement.

Courfeyrac pushes back in his chair. “Time will tell, my friend. Continue your studies as you have been doing,” he admonishes him as he walks over to Combeferre’s bureau and helps himself to a cup of wine. He takes a long pull on his drink, throwing back his head as he swallows it, then removes his shoes and sits back down in his chair.

His activity does not even register with the distracted Combeferre -- until Courfeyrac stretches out his leg and begins stroking Combeferre’s calf with the side of his foot. 

“Stop it, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says sternly, pulling his leg away. “This is not the time or the place.”

“Shh,” Courfeyrac whispers, ignoring Combeferre’s protests. “Concentrate on your work. Pretend I am not even here,” he said, reaching under the table and stroking Combeferre’s thigh.

Combeferre pushes his hand away. “I am not like your friend Marius, you know. You cannot just show up at my door and start manhandling me.”

“But you are significantly more attractive than Monsieur Pontmercy, even if you are almost as infuriating,” Courfeyrac replies, flashing a coy smile at Combeferre, then ducking under the table.

“What the devil are you doing under there?” Combeferre asked, slamming down his book.

Courfeyrac positions himself between Combeferre’s knees, stroking the insides of his thighs. “I am helping a man who will not help himself,” he says, as he lightly presses his right hand against Combeferre’s crotch. “Hmm, definitely more significant than Pontmercy. But I will have to see if you are indeed more attractive.” He reaches for the fastenings of Combeferre’s trousers.

“Courfeyrac!” Combeferre scolds. “I am not interested. Not right now.”

Courfeyrac has already reached inside his trousers, releasing his half-hard cock. “Your manhood appears to say the opposite,” he points out. “It will help you think more clearly, Combeferre. I promise.”

He is answered by only a grunt from Combeferre, so he takes Combeferre’s cock into his hand and begins to stroke it in an upward motion, avidly listening for Combeferre’s continued protests -- and hearing none. His cock is just as Courfeyrac had expected -- long and elegant, or at least as elegant as a man’s cock can be, he thinks. Indeed, if he was being truly honest with himself, it was almost exactly as it was in his nocturnal fantasies. 

Unable to resist any longer, Courfeyrac leans forward and takes the tip of Combeferre’s cock into his mouth, enjoying the sound of Combeferre’s breath hitching in his throat. He lets his tongue explore the tip, humming lightly as he savors the taste of him. Not feeling any additional resistance, he curls his fingers around the base and begins to take him more deeply, relaxing his jaw so he can accommodate all of Combeferre’s length. When his nose is finally buried in the mass of dark blond hair that surrounds his cock, he can hear the pen clatter onto the table above his head.

“Are you all right?” Courfeyrac inquires, releasing a now fully hard Combeferre from his mouth with a wet pop. “Shall I stop now?” 

In reply, Combeferre puts his hand on Courfeyrac’s head, steering him back toward the task at hand. “You do not dare,” he replies.

Courfeyrac chuckles and takes Combeferre’s manhood back into his mouth, letting his hands wander up and down Combeferre’s thighs as he does so. He can feel Combeferre begin to shudder, and finally he spends all over Courferyac’s lips with a loud moan that he is sure the entire neighborhood can hear -- Courfeyrac manages to capture most of it.

After he finishes, Courfeyrac releases him and wipes his mouth, then carefully buttons him back up before crawling out from under the table. “Is your mind more clear now?” he asks as he returns to his abandoned glass and refills it. “Do you wish to me to leave you to your Montesquieu?”

Combeferre rises from his chair with a growl. “No, you may not leave,” he commands. “On the bed, Monsieur de Courfeyrac. I believe in finishing whatever has been started.”

Courfeyrac grins wildly as he moves toward the bed, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes. “Revenge will be sweet, will it not?”

“The sweet revenge will occur,” Combeferre says, as he removes his glasses, “when you must explain to Enjolras why my treatise remains unfinished.”

“Oh Monsieur Combeferre,” Courfeyrac demurs as he steps out of his trousers, revealing his own powerful erection. “I will take that bargain in a heartbeat.”


End file.
